The Haunted Palace
Edgar Allan Poe

In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace-
Radiant palace- reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion-
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This- all this- was in the olden
Time long ago,)
And every gentle air that dallied,
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odor went away.

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene!)
In state his glory well-befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.

The Haunted House

Thomas Hood

PART I
Some dreams we have are nothing else but dreams,
Unnatural, and full of contradictions ;
Yet others of our most romantic schemes
Are something more than fictions.
It might be only on enchanted ground;
It might be merely by a thought's expansion;
But in the spirit, or the flesh, I found
An old deserted Mansion.
A residence for woman,child, and man,
A dwelling-place, -- and yet no habitation;
A House, -- but under some prodigious ban
Of excommunication.
Unhinged the iron gates half open hung,
Jarr'd by the gusty gales of many winters,
That from its crumbled pedestal had flung
One marble globe in splinters.
No dog was at the threshold, great or small;
No pigeon on the roof -- no household creature --
No cat demurely dozing on the wall --
Not one domestic feature.
No human figure stirr'd, to go or come,
No face look'd forth from shut or open casement;
No chimney smoked -- there was no sign of Home
From parapet to basement.
With shatter'd panes the grassy court was starr'd
The time-worn coping-stone had tumbled after!
And thro' the ragged roof the sky shone, barr'd
With naked beam and rafter.
O'er all there hung a shadow and a fear;
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!
The flow'r grew wild and rankly as the weed,
Roses with thistles struggled for espial,
And vagrant plants of parasitic breed
Had overgrown the Dial.
But gay or gloomy, steadfast or infirm,
No heart was there to heed the hour's duration;
All times and tides were lost in one long term
of stagnant desolation.
The wren had built within the Porch, she found
Its quiet loneliness so sure and thorough;
And on the lawn, -- within its turfy mound, --
The rabbit made its burrow.
The rabbit wild and gray, that flitted thro'
The shrubby clumps, and frisk'd, and sat and vanish'd,
But leisurely and bold, as if he knew
His enemy was banish'd.
The wary crow, -- the pheasant from the woods --
Lull'd by the still and everlasting sameness,
Close to the Mansion, like domestic broods,
Fed with a 'shocking tameness.'
The coot was swimming in the reedy pond,
Beside the water-hen, so soon affrighted;
And in the weedy moat the heron, fond
Of solitude, alighted.
The moping heron, motionless and stiff,
That on a stone, as silently and stilly,
Stood, an apparent sentinel, as if
To guard the water-lily.
No sound was heard except, from far away,
The ringing of the Whitwall's shrilly laughter,
Or, now and then, the chatter of the jay,
That Echo murmur'd after.
But Echo never mock'd the human tongue;
Some weighty crime, that Heaven could not pardon,
A secret curse on that old Building hung,
And its deserted Garden.
The beds were all untouch'd by hand or tool;
No footstep mark'd the damp and mossy gravel,
Each walk as green as is the mantled pool,
For want of human travel.
The vine unpruned, and the neglected peach,
Droop'd from the wall with which they used to grapple;
And on the canker'd tree, in easy reach,
Rotted the golden apple.
But awfully the truant shunn'd the ground,
The vagrant kept aloof, and daring Poacher,
In spite of gaps that thro' the fences round
Invited the encroacher.
For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whispcr in the ear,
The place is Haunted!
The pear and quince lay squandered on the grass;
The mould was purple with unheeded showers
Of bloomy plums -- a wi1derness it was
Of fruits, and weeds, and flowers!
The marigold amidst the nettles blew,
The gourd embraced the rose bush in its ramble.
The thistle and the stock together grew,
The holly-hock and bramble.
The bear-bine with the lilac interlaced,
The sturdy bur-dock choked its slender neighbour,
The spicy pink. All tokens were effaced
Of human care and labour.
The very yew Formality had train'd
To such a rigid pyramidal stature,
For want of trimming had almost regain'd
The raggedness of nature.
The Fountain was a-dry -- neglect and time
Had marr'd the work of artisan and mason,
And efts and croaking frogs, begot in slime,
Sprawl'd in the ruin'd bason.
The Statue, fallen from its marble base,
Amidst the refuse leaves, and herbiage rotten,
Lay like the Idol of some bygone race,
Its name and rites forgotten.
On ev'ry side the aspect was the same,
All ruin'd, desolate, forlorn, and savage:
No hand or foot within the precinct came
To rectify or ravage.
For over all there hung a cloud of fear,
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!

Traces of Autumn
by Vivian Gilbert Zabel

Elegantly gowned trees shed their cloaks,
Flooding the ground with a multi-hued quilt
Which weaves a formless pattern,
Smothering the carpet beneath.

Crisp breezes tickle noses
With haunting memories of smoldering leaves
Beneath azure jeweled skies
Teased by veils of misty clouds.

Echoes of cheers, some of jeers,
Escape bleacher-lined fields nearby
Where weary warriors do fight,
Trying a pigskin prize to win.

As chills invade, shivers invoke,
Creating a burning need for fires’ flames,
Tiny tots dream of goblins grim
While pumpkins beam gruesome grins.